Venture
Into the Kingdom
2022
etter From the Editors...
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Let’s go back in time for a moment. You’re a kid again, all freshly tucked up in bed, hugged by the warm, soft quilts your grandmother made for you. It’s night, but you just can’t fall asleep yet. So your mother decides to read you a story. She leaves the room and gracefully walks into the family room. She knows just what book to grab. She comes back into your room holding an old, wellworn book. “ This book has been in my family for generations,” she said. “ It’s about a young villager on her journey to the town’s annual ball to meet the queen.” You are instantly intrigued, as any child would be. The curiosity of what life would be like in a fantasy world is what all kids ponder. Wanna have your childhood dreams
come true? Well, that’s what this magazine is intended to do. As the reader, you will be on a medieval adventure carried out by the words of each story as they take you through this medieval experience. Your mind will be healed through the notes of music coming from the local village, you will bump into famous knights along the way, you will learn the latest trends among peasant fashion, and lastly meet the queen herself, but only after you defeat the kingdom’s most feared foe: the king of television. As a reader, your job is to immerse yourself into the world of all things medieval fantasy – and don’t forget to enjoy yourself along the way! 2022 Edition
Photographers: Yolanta Penn Claudia Adams-Hansen Graphic Designers: Ed Romero Valentin Hannah Hart Angel Marquez Jacob Ericcsen Alexis Hernandez Advisers: Howard Buck Dan Ernst Editors: Jacob Ericcsen Hannah Hart
able of
ontents
The Journey History of Thrifting............................ 1 Drew Eubanks: Reynolds Star Rising..4
The Drawbridge Pacific Crest Trail Odyssey................. 7 Music as Therapy ............................... 11
The Great Hall Son of Spagg: King of Public Access .... 13 The Queen of Troutdale ...................... 17
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A Brief History of Thrifting By Makayla Smith 1
The Journey
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n the past several years, shopping at secondhand stores has become very trendy and something that younger consumers have started doing often. However, repurposing and reselling clothes has been a common practice for many generations. Before the transition to mass-production of clothing, wearing used clothes was something that most people did, no questions asked. However, once new clothes became cheaper, people stopped wanting used clothes and started expecting new items. This is where the stigma around thrifting and secondhand stores started. People began believing that wearing used clothes meant you were poor, and so couldn’t afford to buy new clothes. For some consumers, this was literally true. While mass production made new clothes cheaper, everyone needs clothes and sometimes shopping secondhand was necessary. Secondhand stores were real lifesavers, for some people. During the Great Depression of the 1920s-30s, wearing used clothes became more
acceptable because it was necessary. Thrift stores were an easy and cheap way to buy clothes for oneself and family members when there wasn’t a lot of money at hand. For people who do have resources, vintage stores started becoming more popular, as well. Vintage stores are usually more expensive than thrift stores because only items of great value are selected and placed for sale there, whereas anything usable can be donated and sold at a thrift store. As time went on, wearing used clothes once again became a sign of low-income and in America it was seen as disgraceful to wear someone else’s used clothes. However, in more recent years, there has been a rise of people seeing the benefits of thrifting. Personally, I have seen the effect that social media has had on the amount of people, young people especially, who are shopping at thrift stores. It’s easy to spot – from YouTube videos of people thrifting items, then repurposing them and creating something unique and beautiful, to TikToks of shoppers going into their
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local thrift store and showing a haul of all their extraordinary finds. As more and more people began to prominently promote the benefits of thrifting, more people started doing it. I started thrifting about a year ago, and because I was able to buy so much without spending hundreds of dollars, my style has completely changed for the better. Not only am I and others able to find cheap clothes, but we also aren’t buying and wearing clothes that have been mass produced, something that brings its own environmental and social costs. I also believe one of the reasons thrifting has made a comeback is that we are starting to cycle through old trends. These days, you can find people bringing back trends from almost any decade, so it’s no wonder that people are looking to find pieces that have been donated by people who actually lived in those very threads through those fashion trends.
“I believe one of the reasons thrifting has made a come back is that we are starting to cycle through old trends.” Unfortunately, now that thrifting has become so popular, the prices at certain thrift stores have risen noticeably. Stores that were once cheap and practical places to find used clothes are now selling items
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at prices that would usually be seen in an expensive vintage shop. This defeats the purpose of thrifting, since originally, it was to help those who could not afford new clothes. Now, those same stores are being marketed towards and used by people who can surely afford the new clothes that others cannot. Now, if you are looking for thrift shops that haven’t raised their prices, places such as Goodwill and Salvation Army outlets are still affordable. Others, such as the national chain-Buffalo Exchange and local Portland-Vancouver outlet House of Vintage, are more for consumers who can buy expensive clothes but still prefer to purchase them used. These more expensive places are run more like a vintage shop, and they only accept items that are of higher value. For the discerning shopper, then, there are still plenty of affordable thrift stores, but the low prices tend to be found at stores that are neither trendy nor operate in nicer/gentrified areas. In the end, thrifting has been around for many generations and because it remains essential for so many people, it will likely be around forever.
REYNOLDS STAR
RISING BY BROOKE BLATTLER
DREW EUBANKS SHINES FOR HOMETOWN BLAZERS
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The Journey
F
rom the college town of Starkville, Mississippi, a 2-year-old Drew Eubanks moved to Troutdale, in 1999. At the time, he and his family were unaware of the dreams that would be fulfilled here in the Portland metro area for him: those of becoming a professional athlete, playing for the hometown team. Eubanks attended Reynolds High School in Troutdale, playing baseball well but surging in basketball, too, as his height grew. As a senior, the 6-foot, 9-inch forward/center was rated a four-star college recruit, ranked No. 1 in Oregon. He chose to attend and play for Oregon State University over Cal, Gonzaga, and Oregon, etc., so, if that doesn’t give you an insight into what kind of player or person he is, perhaps this article will.
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When you watch Eubanks play, you get the feeling of being there in the live crowd. He’s one of those players that even when you’re watching him on screen, you will be out of your seat and cheering when he jumps up and grabs the rebound or steals the ball to cross the court and smash the rim with a dunk. He’s never afraid to go for the ball at any point. I revel in watching him stuff the opponent under the basket. He also is very entertaining to watch even on the bench, as he loves giving big reactions to the cameras. All told, he is a well-rounded player and an asset to any team he has been on. From college at OSU, Eubanks went into the NBA in 2018, when he was drafted by the San Antonio
Spurs. After three-and-a-half seasons with the Spurs showing them how an Oregon boy does things, he was traded to the Toronto Raptors in February 2022. Soon after, his career took a dramatic turn: He was waived, then signed a series of 10-day contracts with Portland, finishing out the season with 22 games for the Trail Blazers. With the Blazers so far, in each game Eubanks has gone beyond expectations. He makes it fun to watch the action, and so is the camaraderie between himself and other Blazers such as C.J. El-
leby, as they sometimes play beautifully as one left hand and one right hand of a collective team body. Blazer fans have enjoyed watching his success and rise with Rip City and would love to see his continued success in Portland. We were definitely happy with his performance on the team, and I personally hope to see him signed again with Blazer Nation for the 2022-23 season.
- Rip City 4 Life! Venture Magazine
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Pacific Crest Trail
My Memorable Journey
By Shalynn Robinett
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n 2018, I found an apartment in Cascade Locks, nestled in the heart of the Columbia River Gorge. The Pacific Crest Trail runs through it. Thruhikers stop to replenish supplies and stay a few nights on a journey that often starts in Mexico and ends in Canada. The movie “Wild” starring Reese Witherspoon, based on the memoir by Cheryl Strayed, had a scene filmed here. In it, a divorcee takes on a 1,100-mile hike for self-discovery and to sort out her troubled life. At the film’s end, she ends up in Cascade Locks and walks out onto the Bridge of the Gods. The movie poster can be found in some shop windows – the small town’s claim to fame. My father made a rare trip out from Gresham
The Drawbridge one day. He sipped coffee as I prepped a pot roast. “Hey, Dad, I have been watching all these PCT hikers come through town. Remember when we used to talk about going, all the time? We should go! We could get dropped off in the Mount Hood area and walk to my place.” “I would love to. Let’s make a plan,” he replied. It would be in September, after my busy work season, and I would need a new backpack and a trekking tent. “I’m just going to rough it,” Dad said. “Back when I went with my buddies... just out of high school, I took a tarp and a rope and slept out under the stars. That’s all I need.” In his early sixties, he was gray-haired but healthy and still active. He wore a gray hat and a fleece jacket that Mom sewed for him years ago. He smiled, with a light in his eyes I had not seen in a long time. Still, I wanted a decent tent, within my modest means. As I scanned online options my boyfriend, Coby, intervened. A captain with 23 years in the fire service, he put his hand on his chin. “I do not want you to have unreliable gear. So, I’m taking you to REI and getting you some proper equipment,” Coby announced. I was plenty used to rough weather since I had worked as a park ranger, but I had never backpacked overnight. After a couple of hours with an experienced REI associate, I had everything I needed. My eyes got wide as she read off the total at checkout: It was about the size of my monthly paycheck. Dad pulled out a sprawling topographical map the day before the hike on a kitchen table. From Lost Lake Campground, Huckleberry Mountain Trail 617 connected to the PCT, so we made that our starting point. We planned a five-day trip, the trail from Lost Lake to Cascade Locks logging roughly
28 miles. We shared our plans and set up a tracking device so Coby could monitor our progress.
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The morning started clear with a slight chill, but as we drove, I noticed gray clouds looming to the east. I stared at the slice of sunshine dotting the trees as we got deeper into the woods leading to Lost Lake. Coby dropped us off and watched us slowly fade into the distance. Our trail wound around the lake. About 45 minutes later, doubt set in: “I don’t feel like we are going the right way? Do you, Dad?” I asked. No, was his answer. Soon we spotted a lone cabin tucked off the trail, a few people sitting outside. “Hello, excuse me! I am trying to get to the Pacific Crest Trail. Can you tell me where I can find it?” Dad shouted. A few murmurs could be heard. “I cannot help you. I am from France and know nothing of this area,” a voice rang out. “Best of luck to you.” Dad looked at his compass then told me, “I think we should turn back.” We did so, and somehow found a campground host. The stout, older man opened the RV door. “When you get to the fork, stay left,” he told us; we instead had turned right. The host coughed and cleared his throat: “Be careful out there. A group of hikers came down yesterday in bad shape and said they encountered snow and rain. A few of them were getting sick and wanted to fly home. “The mountains are unforgiving, and the weather can turn on a dime. One mistake could be your last.” Minutes after we set out again, rain began. Heavy, dark clouds blanketed the landscape and unapologetically let loose a deluge. We ascended steep switchbacks, and the rainwater rushed through the trail like a river.
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The Drawbridge Minutes turned into hours as we trudged on, boots squishing with each step; we could not find a place to camp. The terrain was rocky and steep, the last shreds of light slipping away quickly. I grew nervous, and my dad was, too. None of us said it out loud, but we both knew. Finally, we found a tiny nook off the trail, a dirt patch between two downed logs just big enough for a tent. The rain beat down and the wind ripped through the canyon like an angry mountain lion. Shaking and desperate to get out of the elements, we frantically set up camp. Dad struggled to make something that resembled a shelter with his rope and tarp. It was apparent this wasn’t going to work, so he ditched the idea. I would share my tent, so we draped the tarp over the top. We dove inside and burrowed into our 30-below sleeping bags. “What a start to the trip,” I said, chewing on some jerky. “If Coby didn’t insist on getting me this nice tent, jeez, I don’t know where we would be right now.” The vapor from my breath twisted and drifted in the streak of light from my flashlight. “We need to thank him; he most likely saved our lives,” Dad exclaimed as he lay on his back, hands clasped across his chest. I was so physically and mentally tired that I fell asleep almost instantly.
head. Isn’t that awesome!” I noted, getting into the groove. As we rose through the highest portion of our trip, I was awestruck by what felt like a secret green kingdom of beauty and danger. Giant trees, jutting rocks, eagles soaring through the mist; we were ants crawling across this vast landscape. Finally we rose to a windy place with thin air and sharp stones everywhere, what felt like a different planet. There was sparse vegetation, and the drop on the side of the narrow trail had no end. Anytime I looked out, I felt dizzy and feared I would get sucked off the mountain. “I have a fear of heights, yet I do things like this,” I muttered. I had to stare at my feet to keep going, and the dizziness subsided. We passed through terrain scorched by the 2017 Eagle Creek Fire. As far as the eye could see stood trees completely burnt to sticks. The sound of bark sliding down the trunks came from every direction. There was no hint of regeneration; just scarred trees, stones, and wind. We greeted the first person we’d seen all day. A tall, skinny man with a dark trench coat and a bushy beard came from behind, carrying a wooden staff. In a low, booming voice thick with an English accent, he told us a female companion would soon follow. He passed by without stopping. “That guy looked like a wizard, didn’t he,” I told Dad, chuckling. An hour later came a woman who looked somewhat frantic, traveling noticeably light. We asked her plans. “I’m going to Cascade Locks,” she said with wide eyes – still quite a distance. “I don’t have a choice; I’m soaked and freezing. I need to get off the mountain.” She let out a big sigh as she disappeared into the brush. Dad and I looked at each other. “We are freezing and soaked, too. Maybe we should get off the mountain?” I said. My father concurred. We arrived at Wahtum Lake, and I filtered fresh water. There were many lovely camping spots,
“Anytime I looked out, I felt dizzy and feared I would get sucked off the mountain. ‘I have a fear of heights, yet I do things like this,’ I muttered. I had to stare at my feet to keep going, and the dizziness subsided.”
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The bad weather only let up at morning. Our hiking clothes were still soaked, but we had to put them on. I blinked, adjusting to daylight, and saw a beautiful, white, puffy lion’s mane mushroom growing on a downed tree. The harshness faded while we drank instant coffee. We packed swiftly, and soon covered a lot of ground. Surprisingly my body better adjusted to the heavy pack. “Check out that rock, Dad, it looks like a bear
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The Drawbridge but we were determined to keep going. We would cross the Benson Plateau and then started to descend switchbacks, hiking fast and quickly losing elevation. I became dizzy again, and it didn’t go away. I took several breaks and tried again. The dizziness intensified, my knees buckled and I swayed, almost falling over. I finally slowly dropped to my knees. I was not moving, but the world still was. I gasped for breath. I looked at my father and for the first time, he looked frail, and I knew he could not help me, as he had during childhood mishaps. We were on a cliffside, completely exposed, and Dad could not save me this time.
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Several minutes later, three guys in their thirties suddenly appeared. “Are you two okay?” one asked. They were Florien, Felix and Elias. “We are thru-hikers from Germany. We will help you. Elias, take her pack,” said Florien, handing me one hiking pole and grabbing my other arm. “I’ll help get you down.” We headed out. It got dark, and the rain restarted. I wobbled and tripped several times, and Florien stabilized me the best he could. The trio had begun their PCT trek in Mexico and were very experienced. I felt like a novice, pink dumpling. As we rounded a corner, we heard a loud rumble above. Florien listened. “It is a rockslide. Everyone get under here!” he shouted. We ducked under the roots of an upturned tree. I whimpered, but he simply said, “Do not be afraid.” Boulders and other debris crashed and cascaded over us. I held my breath and closed my eyes; then there was silence. Everyone was okay.
We came across a decent camping spot and Dad and I pondered staying. The guys were pushing on but offered to help me all the way down. Since I still had symptoms, I chose to continue: It could be serious; how could I hike out under my own power? I could hear the train running through town as we got closer, the horn echoing hauntingly. The rain poured, and I could barely see. Finally, I recognized familiar landscape. We were almost there. I fished out my phone, calling Coby. “Hi, baby. Can you come get us?” “I could not believe you were moving so fast!” Coby answered, having watched our movement online. “I saw you pause in a rugged area for a while, and I got worried.” I looked up and told the three Germans, “I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know what I would have done without you. Can I send you a care package on the trail at an upcoming destination?” “No, we are happy that you are safe and we were there to help,” was the answer. I sat and peeled off my boots and dripping wet socks. My boyfriend arrived in his small fire truck, noting that I was slightly hypothermic, lethargic, dehydrated, and in moderate shock. My dad was in bad shape, too, but worried only about me. This was one of the most challenging things I had ever done: walking 30-plus mountain miles with a 45-pound pack in just two days, and not five. Our German friends had helped hustle us the last, difficult 8 miles. I had learned what not to do the next time and proved to myself that if I could endure that, I could do just about anything.
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Music Therapy Hits the Right Notes by Ash Espinoza
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usic: We listen to it when we clean, drive, and do various tasks and pretty much just because we can. But what if music could actually be more than just a way to pass the time or fill the silence when we are alone? What if there were a way that music could have deeper benefits and help not only lift your mood but also improve your mental health or even your physical health? I wanted to take the time to show people that music can really change the world in more ways than one – that there are more positives to a song than just liking the band or artist, and that this is something that can definitely make a change in the years and generations to come. The definition of Music Therapy is the clinical and evidence-based use of music interventions to accomplish individualized goals within a therapeutic relationship by a credentialed professional who has completed an approved music therapy program. As noted by the American Music Therapy Association and others, it is clear that evidence-based treatment does help with a variety of disorders, including cardiac conditions, depression, autism, substance abuse, and even Alzheimer’s disease.
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Therapy has also been shown to help generally healthy individuals with improved memory, communication and coping skills, reduced stress and muscle tension, lowered blood pressure, improved self-esteem, and more. It is credited with alleviating physical pain, as well as lessening feelings of isolation. A VERSATILE TOOL Did you know that formal music therapy was defined and first used by the United States War Department in 1945? It was used to helped military service members who were recovering in army hospitals with occupational therapy, education, recreation and physical reconditioning. Of course, most of us naturally sense the more casual benefits of music. Music can bring people together, no matter the circumstances, such as during weddings, funerals, concerts. It works even in more intimate settings, like having a special song with someone you care about – or just having that one song that makes you smile even when you listen to it alone, because sometimes music just needs to be enjoyed solo so you can really feel the lyrics, and truly hear the artist behind the words. I don’t know about any of you, but certain songs
The Drawbridge
“What if there were a way that music could have deeper benefits and help not only lift your mood but also improve your mental health or even your physical health?” for me are tied to certain memories whether they be good or bad, happy or even painful. Any time I hear those specific songs I am immediately transported back in time to that moment and sometimes I’m happy to relive it – like a song I heard with my best friend, or from a concert I attended. Some songs I would rather forget, like the times during which I was homeless, or saw someone I care about get hurt. On the more serious end, music therapy can help people cope with dementia and Alzeihmer’s disease, able to prick memory and stimulate minds to enhance predictability, familiarity and feelings of security. Benefits can range from emotional, physical, and spiritual help, such as better sleep and relaxation, to impressive cognitive and social advancements. Therapy can help autistic children improve communication and help individuals with Parkinson’s disease improve their fine and gross motor skills. PERSONAL PAYOFFS If you wish to try music therapy, you don’t have to fit any type of description. Music therapists work with people of all races, ages, backgrounds and cultures, so anyone can give this a try to see if this would be a good fit for them. During therapy sessions you might try a few different things, such as creating music. You could either compose it, write out lyrics or even just make it up as you go – it’s completely up to your preferences. Singing music, listening to music, dancing, whether it be tapping toes or doing a coordinated dance routine,
playing an instrument or discussing music lyrics, the treatment will match your comfort level. Music therapy has been proven to be good for people with Autism Spectrum Disorder, people who are deaf or hard of hearing and other types of disabilities. It’s able to help with speech and communication skills and boost academic, behavioral, social and emotional outcomes. As someone diagnosed with ASD, music definitely helps me when I get overwhelmed and begin to “spazz out,” as I like to call it. It helps center me mentally and I can slowly begin to focus and regain self-control and calm down from the latest bout of over-stimulation. Sometimes I can get so over-stimulated that music is literally the only thing that can calm me down. I always make sure to have my playlist ready and my earbuds charged up, because it can go one of two ways with me: Either I crash immediately or it’s more like a slow build-up throughout a single day or over a string of days, sometimes of weeks. I can always tell when it’s going to happen – which helps – because I get irritated more easily, get more emotional quicker, and begin to feel like I’m having a miniature panic attack, in some instances. But my playlist is specifically designed to help me in those moments, when nothing else will work – which is why I am such a huge advocate for musical therapy, even though I am not using an actual therapist. I have been doing my own version of it for years now, and it works better than some other things I have attempted, such as meditation or yoga. Musical therapy is simply amazing, and I heavily recommend that everyone, at the very least, give a try because it has a ton of benefits and long-lasting effects that can help do so much good in the world – and I wouldn’t want anyone to miss that opportunity.
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The Great Hall
Son of Spagg
The KinG of PubLic AcCesS by Jayden Moore
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t was 1991 when Portland’s independent entertainment scene was taken by storm: That’s when Jim Spagg hit local public access television screens with “Jim Spagg’s Sex Show.” Almost completely improvised, the show would feature him singing and dancing while nude, taking call-ins from viewers, live performances by local bands, and interviewing guests who were also nude. Immediately the show sparked controversy with the public and the law, as it was seen as
obscene, pornographic content unfit for television. People began protesting outside of the studio where the show was filmed, as well as taking Spagg to court over his show’s content. The attention only pushed him to continue being provocative, however. And as he fought the law and the public over his show, his fans praised him as a champion of freedom of speech. Eventually Spagg would lose his battle in court over copyright infringement, and the show would come to an end in 2003 (only after he defecated on camera). Years later, many fans still regard him as a rebellious hero who stood for freedom of speech and expression. But who was this hero, really, behind the scenes? What kind of man... What kind of father was he? Let’s backtrack a bit. I am a video production major in my second year of the Integrated Media program at Mt. Hood Community College, in Gresham. Growing up in the 2000s, I had never heard of “Spagg’s “Sex Show” nor did I know anything about public access television. I was introduced to the show and Jim as a public figure after getting a job at the Wood Village Walmart store. Within a few months, I met and befriended a man named Jimmy. We became quite close, and before long Jimmy would open up to me about his father and his show. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, so after work I dove deep into the internet, into all of the content focused on Jim that still exists. I was floored. The next day I went back to Jimmy, begging for more information. This is when he told me stories of the man behind the screen, of, growing up and appearing
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with his brother in the early days of the show, and of the collapse of their family. Fast forward to the spring of 2022, where I set out to produce a documentary centered on this “Son of Spagg,” conducting multiple interviews with Jimmy to shed light on Jim and his life behind the camera.
to the Atlanta Speedway. And he would just be videotaping our reactions to everything. You know how modern-day YouTubers go and they vlog a place? That’s what he was doing, but he had an old-school VHS camcorder and he’d just be walking around videotaping things.
“I never saw my dad after that. We got on a plane and went to Ohio,” said Jimmy. “My mom’s side of the story, when she didn’t have cancer was, ‘Oh, he didn’t love me:’ when she got cancer, ‘He hated me.’ ”
“That was before it morphed into the ‘Jim Spagg Sex Show’. ATLANTA It was a family-type .Jimmy and his show. My mom would younger brother, Carl, let me and Carl watch were born in Atlanta to it, and he had a lot of, Nancy McSwain and Jim Spagg. From the start, the like, older people watching it.” family struggled, as Nancy was on welfare and Jim That mild version wouldn’t last long. Spagg’s was unemployed, refusing to work for anyone but show ramped up “really fast. To me, it seemed like himself, Jimmy explained. he was doing that, trying the waters to see what he Instead, he would think up “entrepreneurial” could get away with. Once he found out he could schemes – for instance, going to the cemetery and do anything, that’s when it morphed into the ‘Jim writing names from the tombstones, then ordering Spagg Sex Show.’ Nudity, swearing, all of it. cheap products under those names just to turn “We were going to watch the show” at home, around and sell them at the flea market. He would Jimmy recalled. “And my mom didn’t know how also flip used cars. And so he and Nancy, with her much the show had changed. And as soon as welfare money, would manage to scrape by. she turned it on and stuff started happening, she Jim saw the Atlanta public cable access chan- turned it off and she’s like, ‘OK, we’re not watching nel grow popular, and the show anymore.’ ” came to desire his own Many others in Atlanshow. He would need ta were not thrilled, a camera, and found a either. person in Buckhead (an “You have to underaffluent Atlanta district) stand the area... They selling a video camera call it the ‘Christian for $800. He drove the Belt’ (Jim’s term for the whole family to Buckhead, and then “My dad used Bible Belt), right? And you’re trying to make a show his superpower, his haggling ability,” Jimmy said. with nudity and swearing? On some weekends “He basically convinced the guy that he didn’t when when he would go to shoot, there’d be peowant his camera anymore” and bought it for $250. ple in the parking lot picketing him. He was getting Once Jim had gotten his hands a camera, it a lot of backlash – a lot.” There were even graphic was time for him to start production. His television death threats against him. platform began as merely “The Jim Spagg Show” “When I went to school, I wouldn’t say anyin the 1980s. “We would go places. We would go thing. But when Carl went to school, he was telling to the Atlanta Zoo, we’d go to Six Flags, we’d go
“But who was this hero, really, behind the scenes? what kind of man... What kind of father was he?”
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everybody that his dad (was like) some famous Hollywood big shot, and he’s got a TV show and everything.”
PORTLAND With the swell of publicity and backlash, the family was pushed to move from Atlanta. Jim did some research and found the next biggest public access platform he could, the Portland Cable Access and Gresham MCTV stations. So the family packed their bags for Oregon, where he restarted his endeavor as Jim Spagg’s Sex Show. Notoriety again came quickly, and he and Nancy would clash as the two disagreed with how the show influenced his offscreen behavior.
with the show, or become more engaged with us, Jim was told. “My mom found out she had breast cancer. Growing up, my mom and my dad didn’t like going to the doctor. When my mom finally went... she found out that she had cancer. And she found out that it was bad – third- or fourth-stage cancer. The doctor was giving her time limits on life. And she basically laid it all out on a line with my dad and said ‘Hey, I’m going to Ohio, I’m taking the kids with me: ‘Do you want to come?’ “And he said ‘nope,’’ because at that point,his show was starting to reach its height.
CLEVELAND
“ I never saw my dad after that. We got on “He would shoot a plane and went to the big bulk of his Ohio,” said Jimmy. “My show on the weekmom’s side of the story, ends, and he’d come when she didn’t have home Sunday night cancer was, ‘Oh, he and he’s all jazzed didn’t love me;’ when and juiced up,” said she got cancer, ‘He hatJimmy. “Sometimes, ed me.’ I talked to my some people get a dad a couple of times little too deep into on the phone, and he Jayden Moore and Jimmy McSwain sitting for photo shoot. the character. When would always say how my mom and him much he loved my were fighting, somemom, and he was so sorry that he couldn’t go to the times it was like the crazy game show host was funeral. So, yeah, that’s a straight-up lie. That’s just fighting with her, not my dad. The ‘Jim Spagg’ charhow she felt, too. Yeah. Here you are, you’re in third-, acter would come out in the fighting. She’d always fourth-stage cancer and the person that you love say, you know, ‘Snap out of the game show host doesn’t want to have anything to do with you. How and let me see the man that I fell in love with.’ And would you feel? still he would not break character. He’d do it just to “That’s what happens in life. Sometimes there aren’t spite her.” happy endings. That’s why we try not to talk about This battle would cause a rift between Jim the past a lot because it doesn’t make you feel and his family that would bring an ultimatum: Stick
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good... thinking and dwelling on it.” Upon moving to Cleveland, Jimmy and Carl would live with their mother’s very fractured family, also financially strapped. They were simply two more mouths to feed, and were resented. The main conflict was with Nancy’s sister. “I loved my aunt. But immediately when we got off the plane and showed up, we got nothing but spite from her. In fact, I heard from my uncle, ‘You know what she said to me about you and your brother? That we should have just dropped you off at an orphanage.’ ” Jimmy had escaped one toxic environment for an even more spiteful and hostile one. After his mother died, he and Carl would be separated, and the younger brother sent back to live with Jim in Portland, at age 15. Jimmy didn’t like that idea. “I was worried because I remember the first time seeing the show and the stuff that my dad did on the (Portland) show. I was like, wow, he’s going to be a young kid and he’s going to be around all of that.”
CODA Ultimately, once their father was sued and then spectacularly lost access to the PCA and MCTV studios, he tried recording a new program, “Jim Spagg’s School of Humanity.” It was a shortlived bid for more attention. He would pivot away from provocative content and focus on philosophy and life advice, and even ran for Portland mayor in 2004. However, he would suffer a fatal heart attack on May 8 of that year. Only after Jim’s death did Jimmy track Carl down and come west to reconnect, after no contact for more than a decade. Then, and even to this day, Carl was very closed off and cagey about his father and the things he witnessed, his brother said. Currently the two live together in Wood Village. On the absence of Jim in
his own life, Jimmy said, “Well, they say that boys are closer to their mom and girls are closer to their dad. But I feel like in the teenage years, boys kinda need their dad a little bit more. And in my teenage years I didn’t have my dad. I think it would’ve probably been a better outcome if I did.” Asked if his father passed anything to Jimmy that stuck with him, the son said, “So originally, it was his name: Jimmy was his name, but he went downtown and got his name changed to Jim. And then when I was born, they named me Jimmy, and he would always tell me ‘I gave you my name.’ ” Jimmy then elaborated on showman’s legacy. “I don’t want everybody to think that I hate him, but if I could have the fans take anything from this, what I would like is the fans to see my side.” As for the show and any lasting impact, Jimmy reckons, “He wanted everyone to have freedom of speech, and I think that’s kinda neat. In the times that we’re living, the government is always concocting some crazy way to take things from us, and you have people out there that are trying to help us keep something. “And I felt like that’s what he was trying to do – keep freedom of speech with us.” Following my interview, Jimmy recalled that years before, his father sent him a VHS tape of the very early Atlanta shows, which Jim considered his favorites. I was able to digitize the tape and to let Jimmy view “Jim Spagg’s Atlanta ’88” show once more. In it, the father declares these were the golden days, then sings – as if reaching out directly to Jimmy – “Those Were the Days,” made famous by Mary Hopkin. Indeed, those were the days, my friend... As Jim bid farewell to viewers at the close of each show, “Happy Doodles!!”
“I loved my aunt. But immediately when we got off the plane and showed up, we got nothing but spite from her. In fact I heard from my uncle, ‘You know what she said to me about you and your brother? That we should have just dropped you off at an orphanage.’ ” Venture Magazine
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The Queen of Troutdale By Shalynn Robinett
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Troutdale thought everything was hysterically funny. Even if you went barefoot up the hill to school, by God, you were from Troutdale, and you could do it.
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f you have joyfully explored the many wonders of McMenamins Edgefield or marveled at the displays in one of Troutdale’s three museums, there is chiefly one person to thank: Sharon Nesbit, age 82, a former news reporter, columnist, author, and passionate historian. I had the recent pleasure of joining her at the Harlow House Museum to learn more about her life and the fantastic work she has done to preserve the past for generations to come. The house was built in 1900 by Fred Harlow, the son of Troutdale founder Captain John Harlow. It features period furniture, décor, and household items, including a green crushed-velvet settee, cranberry glassware, and old medicine bottles. A visit is a beautifully curated step back in time. As Nesbit and I sat in the cozy living room, she was asked if she would like anything from Grateful Coffee. “No, thank you, I’ve already had my coffee this morning. If I have too much, I start planning to take over the government,” she replied, and we both laughed. Nesbit described her own professional path. “I always knew I was going to write stuff. The first time I saw a toy typewriter, I thought that is a really cool thing. I started writing when I was in first or second grade. I remember we wrote little booklets, and when it was my turn to read in front of the class, my classmate Bobby Mackenturf threw himself back in his seat and said, ‘Jeez that was good!’ “And that was all it took. I didn’t know what kind until I took my first journalism class in high school, and I realized that was an ideal place to be a writer.” Nesbit left Madras in central Oregon when she was a sophomore, landing at Sandy High School. “They didn’t have a journalism program that amounted to anything, so I basically ran it. I had a great teacher; he just didn’t know journalism.” At age 15 Nesbit started working for The Sandy Post newspaper as a Linotype operator. The Linotype was a large typesetting machine that transferred a line of text to a sheet and rapidly printed on
many pages with matrices and hot metal. “You got a lot of hot lead burns, but the fire department was right down the street, so you could pop over there and get your burns treated. Heck, I may be the last living Linotypist there is.” She and two young men, one of whom was deaf, worked the large, loud machines together (it was common back then for deaf people to be schooled in printing). “We worked all day and then put the sheets on a flatbed press, and by that time, the boss would come back, but he was pretty drunk by then. Then we’d print it, sort them out for distribution, and at 3 o’clock in the morning, we walked home.” Nesbit scraped up a scholarship and just enough money to study journalism at Pacific University in Forest Grove, for one year. “I had an affliction for nice cars, you see. Maybe if I didn’t have a convertible, I could have done another year.” She got a job offer at the Seaside Signal newspaper, so she moved to the coast, working for nine months. There she met her future husband, Bill, and once they got married the two settled in the Portland area. She published a church newsletter while their children were small. Then the family moved to Troutdale in the early 1960s, a change “unheard of back then.” Their house in Troutdale, with only about 400 residents, was among the first built in decades. “We were a bit of a curiosity when we arrived. The ladies from the church came to visit, like they used to do. I was getting them something to drink in the kitchen, and I heard them say, ‘Hmmm, so that’s the new carpet. It’s nothing like the folks at church said it was.’ ” She began paying attention to the city council meetings. At the time, Glen Otto was on the council, about to become mayor. Troutdale was planning its first subdivision, about 30 houses, a big deal for a small town. “I noticed nothing about this in the paper, and this was something the people of Troutdale needed to know,” she said. She called the
“ ‘No, thank you, I’ve already had my coffee this morning. If I have too much, I start planning to take over the government,’ she replied, and we both laughed.”
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The Great Hall publisher of the nearby Gresham Outlook, “and he said, ‘If you think this story is important, why don’t you write it, and I’ll pay you.’ “That’s how I started writing for the Outlook,” said Nesbit. In the early days, she was paid out of the petty cash drawer. Nesbit worked from home as a hired scribe and kept her typewriter on a roll-away desk stowed in a broom closet. “I would pull it out and put my coffee on the stovetop, write, and when the kids went to school, I would take my finished work to the Outlook. My son loved to come with me to the newsroom, and people would buy him a lollipop from the candy machine. He thought it was just so cool.” For years she hand-delivered her work, then shared a newsroom desk, and then got a desk of her own. “I’m not very tidy, and my desk became a landmine for old files and all sorts of crap. It was like a fortress.” In her sixties Nesbit retired from the Outlook, but has edited special sections and still contributes a weekly column.
ical society ended up going on to be the mayor several times over the years – Bob Sturgis, Sam Cox. It was a very close relationship with the city.” Even so, the city made a park purchase that triggered a move to the aged Harlow House. “At our first meeting here... we didn’t realize there were no lights, only oil lamps, and it was too dark to see each other, which was hysterical.” Soon walls were refinished, a new roof added; there were always many people who wanted to help the restoration, the society’s first. Then the group put the house on the National Register. Over time, the group became more organized, cataloging items and keeping inventory. A tax levy later became available, “and we made sure that four small historical societies in Multnomah County were included,” said Nesbit. Funding is now more solid. “We finally got someone in here to keep better records than I did. That’s not my job,” she said with a giggle. Nesbit savors her historical society ties, for all the stories shared by people. “Troutdale always laughed at itself. Gresham was always snooty with Sometime in the early their businesses, and Fair1960s, Mayor Otto contacted view was so pure. Wood her and they decided that Village didn’t exist at the time. Troutdale thought Troutdale needed its own historical society. “We borrowed an industrial-sized coffee pot and invited everything was hysterically funny. Even if you people to City Hall, and about 20-30 people came.” went barefoot up the hill to school, by God, you were from Troutdale and you could do it. Those The group was created, City Hall serving for years are the sorts of stories that I started to pick up, as the only logical meeting space. Otto soon bought a riverfront property that went and I started writing them down. “Troutdale could barely keep one church goup for sale for back taxes and turned it into a park ing. Fairview had four churches; they were very – now named for him, near Troutdale Bridge. The religious,” Nesbit explained. The first built was property was used as a church camp, and the historical society was able to rent one of the buildings the lovely Smith Memorial Presbyterian Church on 223rd Avenue. The city banned alcohol, had and open its first museum. “It was really exciting – in such a small town, you no taverns and, “in many ways, no places to gather and tell stories.” could make things happen. Sometimes you bit off Troutdale had four taverns, clustered around more than you could chew, but you didn’t know it at the rowdy main drag. Many people traveling by the time,” Nesbit said. “The president of the histor-
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The Great Hall train would stop to let their hair down on their way to Portland. “One of the founders of the historical society told me when she was young, in the early 1900s, her father said under no circumstances was she allowed to ride her pony through downtown Troutdale. It was just not safe for kids. But you come up into the rest of the town near the church where the women and children were, and it was a respectable community. (Someone) would write about what went on at the PTA meetings and send it to the Outlook, and they would always publish it because they needed the news.” The city’s first female mayor triumphed because state law had just changed, and her competitor was a tavern owner who had served alcohol to the son of an important Portland citizen. “They arrested him and threw him in the pokey. The election was coming up, and Clara Latourell won by five votes. They said it was ‘a splendid majority,’ ” Nesbit said, chuckling. “Her husband also owned a saloon in town. Things were always so contradictory.” Nesbit has pored through numerous historical newspapers published by the Outlook, dating back to 1911. She soon will start a project with the University of Oregon to photocopy and catalog all of them. “The thing about these little-town newspapers is they told you everything: who was having a baby, who got a job. You couldn’t get that kind of news in the (Portland) Oregonian.” She herself kept close track of events in Gresham, Troutdale, Fairview, and Corbett over the years. “It was really quite fun. I guess you could call it social studies,” she said. She revived an old-style news column that featured news from 10 years before. It ran for 30 years, until the COVID pandemic hit. “We were probably the last newspaper to do that type of column,” said Nesbit, lamenting the struggle of news outlets in the digital age. The
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Outlook has hustled to stay alive, she said. “I still like to go in and listen to the press room. It smells so good.”
Nesbit would take a key role in saving the former Multnomah County Poor Farm – now McMenamins Edgefield – from the wrecking ball in the 1980s. The county decided it couldn’t afford to keep the old main building, built in 1910 to house the poor and disabled and plagued by costly upkeep. It planned to raze it and build an industrial complex in its place. “We were always interested in old buildings here in Troutdale” and the poor farm was one of them, said Nesbit. “I covered it for the Outlook; I interviewed a 100-year-old lady who was gasping on her pillow.” In the 1970s, Oregon land-use law reforms allowed more historical sites to be saved. “I realized that the county had deliberately left Edgefield off the list. The records of the people who lived at the poor farm are fascinating. Tearing it down and not talking about it seemed wrong to me.” Nesbit spent a whole summer nominating the site to the National Register, a mission finally fulfilled in 1990. She then convinced Troutdale leaders to name it a historic site and try to market it to buyers. “A few people took a shot at it, but the McMenamin brothers (Portland entrepreneurs Mike and Brian) showed up with the crazy notion of turning it into a hotel. They got such a deal,” she said, laughing. “It was a joy to watch them renovate it. Their philosophy was, it had to be fun.” She visited, walking into what is now a tiny bar near the Loading Dock Grill that was originally the fumigation shed where new arrivals “were sprayed with obnoxious
“It was really exciting – in such a small town, you could make things happen. Sometimes you bit off more than you could chew, but you didn’t know it at the time.”
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The Great Hall chemicals” to rid them of lice. “They were painting it all these crazy colors, and I thought, wow, who does that? “I got to know all 12 artists working there because I gave them some stories that inspired the art. It was so cold, they had to bring their own little heaters.” In tribute, the McMenamin brothers dubbed Nesbit “The Queen of Troutdale” and created a hotel room in her name on Edgefield’s first floor. She also is the featured face of their 2008 Poor Farm Pinot Gris.
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As our conversation wound down, Nesbit was asked to name her favorite thing about digging up Troutdale’s past. She paused, hand on chin. “As I got closer to the families here, I learned some of their darker secrets. Every family has them. “Lou Harlow, who lived in this house, had an alcoholism problem. He was well-respected, so many people would look past it. Laura Harlow, the former mayor, was sort of a miser: She had one son and two granddaughters, but they didn’t get any help from her monetarily. Lee Evans, the last per-
son to live here, was a stone-cold alcoholic, and we found every one of his liquor bottles out there in the fishponds. “Dick Knarr had a bent finger from throwing people out of the Troutdale dances; he wasn’t opposed to hitting you with his fists. “When they told stories, the guys would reference who slept around, sexual side ventures, and such; the women did not. They (oldtimers) never talked about people being gay and referred to them as bachelor farmers or old maid teachers, so you had to read through the coded language. “The deeper details, I find very fascinating.” It was wonderful to see the glint of joy in Nesbit’s eyes and smell the light musk of the old house, wooden floorboards overhead creaking ever so often as society volunteers worked upstairs. If this article leaves you wanting to know more about her, or the rich history of the area, contact the Troutdale Historical Society, stop by one of its museums, or check out her books “It Could Have Been Carpdale” and “Vintage Edgefield - A History of the Multnomah County Poor Farm.” A true adventure awaits you.
“I would pull it (my desk) out and put my coffee on the stovetop, write, and when the kids went to school, I would take my finished work to the Outlook. My son loved to come with me to the newsroom, and people would buy him a lollipop from the candy machine.” A mural painted inside the Edgefield Manor honors Nesbit.
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